1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…
My memories are clouded. In this fog of thoughts, I don’t remember if my parents were happy when I first learned how to count.
I should cut down caffeine, my doctor said, so I’d hear less of the voices that keep me up at night.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.
B-r-e-a-t-h-e.
How is it so hard?
Those voices keep humming his words that night on the beach. I keep reliving the moment, over and over. Who can tell me what love is?
I don’t understand this predicament.
My mirror does not only hold my reflection, but also the monster above my shoulder. I am disarranged, I can’t find my edges.
He was my mirror. I saw his monster; it was as ugly as mine.
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, breathe. And go to sleep.”
I had a dream that I made a pilgrimage to the fountain of Aphrodite. My state of mind was not sleep-like, it was as if My mind was caught in the minutes right before sleep. The fountain was like something I have never read about in Greek mythology. It was the size of my house, twice, covered in glimmering marble. Everyone stood in awe at that fountain, and when I reached it, right on top of the mountain, they all turned to look at me, as if they were waiting for my arrival. I was indulged in self-love, unlike my waking life. I could tell from the beam in their eyes that I was more radiant than anything around me, the marvelous trees and the tremendous flowers. In my dream, i did not care what they thought about me, naked, in front of all those people. They were all fully clothed.
I stepped into the fountain, and I seemed to be peeling off my skin, as if taking off pieces of clothes, so gracefully. Every step I took further, I peeled off more, and more.
I reached the waterfall, and the water was somewhat reflective, it was exploding in light.
I saw myself through the waterfall, I remember that I gasped. I was different. In the rushing thoughts of the realm of dreams, I saw myself through all the lies I tell myself. The truth of I, the beauty.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Breathe yourself into awakening.
What is my sin?
My only sin is that through the rumblings of doctors, and papers, and papers of symptoms; those abstract things they call words which are perceived as Truth, and all those steps I had to follow to dress up as the better version of myself. And the lies they tell me about necessity of my dependence on the “cure” they create in their labs, this made it so difficult to look at myself in the mirror and say “this, here, this bundle of imperfections, my grace is beyond all that.”

After my many years of therapy, my dream was the most soul-penetrating. “Just like that.” I tell myself, “things could change just like that, and it’s not so bad.”

The next night, I looked my monster straight into his weak, ugly eyes, and I read the words of Rumi to him:
“If the foot of the trees were not tied to Earth, they would be pursuing me.. For I have blossomed so much, I am the envy of the gardens.”